God Of The Silver-Tongues

'The Invention of Love', by Tom Stoppard, received its premiere at the Cottesloe Theatre, Royal National Theatre, London, on 25 September 1997. The role of 'Charon' was played by Michael Bryant, then aged 69.

"And they stretched out their hands in desire of the further shore."

Not much to look at, maybe. Dog-ears,

Blotches, one of those satisfying

Spinal curvatures (the complexion

Of achieved purpose),

With metal prongs stabbed through

The coverlet of plain-sky-blue.

Plain, that is, but for the blinking glint

Of gold: the label alive (as an actor's eye)

When it catches the light.

Imagining some Grecian scholar

I delve into the ruffled leaves -

Survey the assemblance of wisdom:

'The Invention of Love'.

The first page hangs - an extended dove -

And falls with a snug-winged nestle.

Corrections, arrows, cuts, additions.

Lift, hiatus, drift and fall. Parched

Yellow highlightings (the ripeness garnered),

A tea-stain fleck, electric glow - and lift,

Hiatus, drift and fall. The kiss

Of each leaf on soft-lipped leaf, reciprocal.

(Stop)

An envelope.

Empty. Autumnal. Preserved

Like a petalled-butterfly, pressed -

Embalmed in its chrysalis.

Touch skin on flattened skin.

The air.

Shiver. Wing-ruffle. Escapage

Of dust, and a flutter of fragrance:

The scent of invention, reborn.

This was his 'line-learner' -

Companion in those days

Of gestation:

A drifting eclipse on the rounds

Of his fingers. Their together-scroll

From line to line like the moon

Back-peeling the folds of the sun,

Or the teasing reveal of the turning earth.

His brown-winged Skipper.

I conjure a flash of your eye in the dust,

In the caves of that Stygian gloom. Charon,

Ferryman: God of the silver-tongues, God

Of the Underworld.

You've got to admit it has gravitas.

On page eighty-five you have branded a note:

"Hold out hand"

 Hold out hand?

Soft in my palms is a tremble of wings:

Lift, hiatus, drift and fall.

--

Into the fog

I am reaching, reaching -

Reaching into the fog.

Distant and dim, but approaching,
Encroaching: a beacon

Beams back from the night.

A paddle of waves

And a rippling slosh.

Then a bow, and a belly of wood.

An oar balanced over his shoulder,

His face in a drizzle of light.

A standstill crunch of skiff on sand.

Hold out hand. Hold out hand.

The candle flame quivers.
There is crystal in his eyes.

--

May these lines be my passage,

My obolus into the mist -

And row me over to that bank

Of eglantine.

Sunday Prayers

Peculiar shoals (viewed from blimps)
Weaving migratory patterns.
We converge like seasonal salmon.

There are Heralds to our spiritual homecoming:
Halo-hatted angel-riders at the silver gates.
Beyond, a gently-sloping altar of hero worship:
Bold canvas of Ithacan green.

Baptisms fall in April drizzle.

Fervent Citadel.
Basilica of Zeal.
Catacomb of once-lived Mystery.

Full-resonating our terraced Cathedral
Are the prayers of devotion:
The fading-echoes of St Gregory
Squeezed through an evolutionary sausage-press,
Then pierced like cling-film to taste the clear air
Of our roofless Reformation.

In the heat of meditation
(In the stinging downpour)
We sing the blaze of passion:
Raucous blur of larynx and lung.
Music of the living voice - 'viva voce' -
Filters through the skins of generations.

We sing to our Gods -
Who respond in mysterious ways.

Puck's Grove

I wear the fragrance on my neck.

Branches jut in barky-fingers;
Woodbine suckles nightly screams
and moans; the faithful Violets nod.

A noxious burn of Muskrose scent:
wilting beauty, youth capricious -
the dead breeze blows... blows.

Clog of sound, clog of breath,
cloistered dome of stifled air.

The Elms: they strain, they creak, they crane
their hooded crowns upon the bank,
and muffle and gag the groans.

A snake chokes upon his own skin.

'F'

Fff: my favourite word stopped short,
in the nick of time. Voiceless air
dissolves from teeth and gums
like sand through fingers,
or an hour glass.

'F for Failure': the red-ink smear of Tabloid red.
In the font of blood they baptise Gods:
a dizzying cycle of winch and drop,
winch and drop... ascension,
uplift, sag and fall... fall.

Brains bloat like sponges, swelled;
wires clog with soot, ash
and silicon - the seam of moist grime;
eyes grope a pair of double Fs...
a bit cheap?

The Long Drive to Ithaca

(Tiger Woods)


Eagle-eyed scrutiny
in a talon's clasp -
the taunting grasp
of knowing fingers.

Rapid uplift,
coil
and uncoil explosion -
thrust
with a rocket's trajectory.

Out of kilter -
his affirmative tick
droops under the grind
of spent, slackening cogs.

On the fairway's trim,
in the tree-top dapple,
with the fallen leaves
he stands.

Hiatus...
Pendulum swing...
Silhouette.

She arcs -
the curvature
of a hooked-beak,
primed,
breath tantalised
on the verge of imminence.

In the rushed embrace of gravity
she falls from height -
strikes the apex,
bites, rips,
rolls and writhes
in the ecstasies of wild precision -
a little death...

And a smile
penetrates his lips
in a succession of waves -
like the spread of electric tide.

"Lilies for Lily"

Sat in the pews
we pick up our cues religiously -
respectfully.

Gravity's noose -
so strange and numb.

You were country air,
garden gloves and secateurs,
the salt breezes of Sligo.

Not the type for slow-diffusal:
no shadow drift from life
but swiftness of light.

"Lilies for Lily" -
they crackle an outbreath
of plastic.

Beneath this crust
the sealed caves echo:
loss of warmth,
memory - a cold,
clogged sponge.

Under her weight
his tears drip
dense necklace pearls.

Sir Patrick Moore's Monocles

I watched 'The Sky at Night' on BBC:
lunar oceans, year-long storms on Saturn...
Into the blinking rectangle I typed
'patrick moore monocle'. He owns three or
four. 'I never wanted to wear glasses.
I can just pop this in when I need it.'
How on earth do they stay fixed to his face,

wedged in the socket ridges of his eye?
But then, what holds this planet in the sky?
What if it's his monocles holding us
steady - some primal co-dependency
between these unearthly halos of glass
and our primitive sphere? I think we should
listen to what they are saying to us.

~

I am Sir Patrick's oldest monacle,
and have witnessed your insatiable thirst:
your thirst for knowledge to conquer your fears.

You wield the red biro of right and wrong
over children who recite Gospels of
modernity: you shake them, sift for dreams,

cleanse them of instinct, all but rigid fact -
they are blood diamonds and you bleed them white.
Your oak galleons scour the distant globes:

you are the Conquistadors of Science.
Holy Wars sets creed-scrolls ablaze upon
stakes, strikes nails through the spines of holy books.

I see lost youth, I see slaves, genocides.
I see fear of the beautiful unknown.